Shoot Him If He Runs
by RapidSong123
Summary: Out of the Death Eater's ashes rose four teens. Between them, a daring plot to take down the Ministry, to retrieve a soul from the realm of the lost, and to put their mark on history is formed. And they will do whatever it takes to get the job done.
1. Chapter 1: Gone Missing

A/N:

**A/N:**

Okay, so this is a fic that is post DH, disregarding the epilogue. It is set about a year after the 'Great Battle' (aka the big battle in the last book. Obviously.). I've added some of my own OC characters, though the cannons will also play a key role, too.

Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own any of the cannon characters. They are JK Rowling's. Unfortunately.

Claimer: John Slaughter, Dominic Steele, Esmerelda Roshiv, and Daniel Royce are all mine and may not be used in any way without explicit permission from the author. Aka—me. No stealing, please!

But enough of this—on with the good stuff! Or bad, either way you look at it. But I DO happen to prefer the first.

"How many?" McGonagall asked wearily. Her hair, which had always been in a tight bun, was flying out in all directions. She was not her usual rapt self—she was tired, covered in blood, and wanted desperately to go to sleep. However, after Dumbledore's death, she had duties to attend to. And, in his good, noble name, she would do what was expected of her, including the mournful chore of hearing the names of the dead or missing.

"Twenty-six." The young man answered. He was covered, also, in blood, though he stood admirably upright despite all the physical damage done to his body. For there was quite a bit, but he walked without a limp. That was hard, mind you, when it looked like his leg had been torn apart by a very hungry, bloodlust-y Swedish Horn Tail. He noticed her nervous glances and discreetly shifted his pant leg down to cover the gaping wound.

"Twenty-six." The Headmistress repeated, feeling as if she were going to be sick. She did manage to keep her lunch down by asking reluctantly, and desperately trying to not think about which students he would name, "How many dead? Who?"

"Nineteen dead." Mcgonogall proceeded to wince as he ticked off the names. "Rooney, Alpert, Brown, Johnson…" He trailed off when she had to lean against the nearest student for support. "Perhaps," The young man suggested quietly, "I should just send a owl with the names up to your desk."

McGonogall nodded, conceding. "The missing." She managed to say, as the young woman she was leaning on struggled to hold the thin woman up. "I can…I can stand the missing, Slaughter. Give me the names." There was still hope, she told herself. The missing weren't always dead. Just half of the time, blown to little pieces that were unable to be identified….McGonogall wobbled dangerously, and Patil had to pull the Headmistress's arm across her shoulder.

The young man, Slaughter, frowned but obliged obediently. "There are seven missing." He growled, scanning the battlefield with gray eyes. People were crying, holding each other, and scurrying around to heal the nearly-dead. "Royce. And Steele." He croaked. Yes, Steele and Royce were missing.

"Oh, John." Patil said. "I'm so sorry."

John Slaughter shook his head. "They're not dead. I'll find them." And then he ploughed on—he didn't want to think of his best friend, possibly dead, lying in some hidden area. Maybe the body was under the bushes, maybe sprawled somewhere in the trees…. "Samson. Norman. Wheeler." His eyes looked away from the sorry sight of the Hogwarts grounds to the Headmistress. The woman was sharp enough, tired though she was, to see through Slaughter's pretenses. He looked reluctant to say much else. She would never admit it, but he was scaring her. The suspense was painful.

"Out with it, Slaughter!" She demanded, some of her old self returning. "That is only five!"

John nodded solemnly, but said cautiously, "Professor, maybe you should sit down."

McGongall waved away his concern. "Tell me Slaughter, or I'll hex you. Tell me _now_."

"Potter. Roshiv and Potter."

"Of course." McGonogall said, closing her eyes. She looked much older than she actually was right then, and she put a hand to her head. "Of course."

"Harry?" Pavarti Patil said, astounded. "And Esmerelda?"

John looked coldly back at her, his grey eyes taking on the look of steel. There was no emotion—not even for Potter.

"Christ." Pavarti whispered, her throat dry.

"No," Slaughter said quietly as he turned to leave. "No, Patil. He won't help you now." And John Slaughter walked away, to go search for his lost friends.

Or, maybe, the pieces of his lost friends.

"Harry? Ohgod, no. Not Harry!" Hermione wailed, tears jumping to her eyes and already beginning to fall.

Ron put his arm consolingly over his girlfriend's shoulders and took a deep breath. "He's missing, 'ermoine." He said, his voice strained and scratchy from unshed tears. "We'll find him."

Patil nodded, rubbing a hand over her tearstained cheeks. "Slaughter told McGonogall early this morning." She sniffled.

"Where is he now?" Weasley asked her. He wanted to see if his fellow Eighth Year had more information for him. Ron was already making his mind up to search for Harry as soon as his job at Hogwarts castle was done.

"I don't know." Patil conceded. "He went off to look for Royce and Steele—they're missing, too."

Ron nodded soberly. "Hermione, go maybe you oughta go to the hospital wing and help Madam Pomfrey."

Ganger rose from her position against the wall in the hallway that Patil had met them in by chance and bade Patil farewell before turning to go. Ron and Pavarti watched her go sadly, Weasley's eyes lingering where her back finally disappeared.

"Who else is missing, Pavarti?" Ron asked quietly. It had been the whole reason he suggested Hermione go to Miss Pomfrey, and Hermione knew it was, too. He knew he couldn't ask the question in front of his girlfriend—it would only make thing worse for her. And Hermione had known Ron's motives and had left of her own goodwill—she didn't want to hear the names, would rather be ignorant for once than knowledgeable.

Pavarti struggled to remember all the names that she had heard. "Um, Wheeler." She said, rubbing her eyes. "Norman. Oh, Steele. And…Ron?"

Ron swallowed hard. "Who else? Pavarti, who else is missing?"

Patil patted his arm and she said, through tight lips, "Roshiv is gone, too. We can't find her anywhere."

Ron's eyes widened. "Bitch." He spat venomously. "Roshiv—I should have known."

And Pavarti had nodded sadly, too heavy-hearted to say much else.

"Malfoy!"

Draco was panting, lying on his back. He had to keep moving. If he showed his face at Hogwarts…If he showed his face anywhere, he would be murdered. He would have to go to jail just for safety—it would be much safer than showing his face anywhere in the wizarding community.

"Malfoy! We know you're here!"

The wandlights passed over the bushes he was hiding in—his heart stopped altogether—but they kept moving steadily. There were moving quickly, their footsteps able to be heard. All were on feet—there was no room to fly in the dense forestry. The only way was to walk.

As soon as the sounds of their passage had faded, he scrambled to his feet. Twigs and leaves and all sorts of underbrush were sticking to his tattered robes, but he realized he had to keep moving. He had been associated with the Death Eaters for much too long to stick around. He and Roshiv—oh yes, Roshiv would be paying just as dearly as he was at the moment. That is, if she was not already dead.

"_Snarilosia!"_

Draco yelped pitifully, and then cursed profusely as he battled with the Devil's Snare that was wrapping around his wrists and ankles, pinning down his legs and circling his arms. He ground his teeth—it wasn't working. The more he struggled, the more it seemed the inescapable plant held him harder. Draco pulled his wand out of his sleeve—he had managed not to lose it during the battle—and then realized that was useless, too. If he missed the fine vine, then he would blow his own leg off. He cussed again, rather colorfully, and tried to get himself under control. Lie still, he told himself, lie still and think of an escape plan.

"Malfoy."

"Slaughter." Draco replied coolly, secretly pleased with how calm his voice sounded.

John Slaughter was crouched against a large oak tree, his arms folded over his knees that were pulled up against his chest. His dark hair was unkempt, flopping over his eyes. His head was bent, too, but his stormy eyes were looking over Draco evenly, his tanned face not showing any emotion. His jeans, Malfoy noticed sullenly, were in much better condition than Draco's own. Slaughter's were only ripped in a few places—across the knees, over one thigh, a gap in the fabric at the shin…That was stained a very ugly red. His shirt was worse for wear, though, Malfoy noticed with a small amount of satisfaction. The red rag was torn in numerous places across his chest, back, and shoulders.

"Get that damned smirk off your face, Malfoy." Slaughter growled, leaning his head wearily against the gigantic tree trunk behind him, and closing his eyes. "It's not helping your situation."

Malfoy's smirk became more prominent.

Slaughter sighed, and opened his eyes again. He looked at Malfoy levelly, who gazed calmly back.

"You don't look afraid." Remarked Slaughter.

"That would be because I'm not, Slaughter."

"Didn't sound like it earlier—you were rummaging around in that bush like you were some sort of rat." Then, as an after thought, he added, "Or ferret."

Malfoy's smile tightened to hide the growing pain in his chest—the constricting ivy was making it harder and harder to breathe. "Hypocrite—instead of hexing me, you used devil's snare. You were the one who was scared."

Slaughter smiled—the expression looked painful on his face, too foreign. A smile was barely ever seen on John Slaughter's face, and, to be quite frank, it looked rather intimidating. "Technically, Malfoy," He said, rising, "I used both."

Malfoy smiled too. John jumped just in time. "Impendimentia!" He said, and John dove to one side, rolling on his shoulder, onto Malfoy's blind side. Malfoy, unlike John, could not move because of the Devil's Snare and was left utterly vulnerable.

"Stupid move," Commented John as he picked himself up. "Desperate. Reckless."

Draco was reminded painfully of Severus Snape—he had died exactly a year ago, and had said that same word 'reckless' several times. 'You are too reckless', he would say, 'You will expose us all!'. Draco sneered reproachfully. There had never been an 'us'. Snape had always been with Them. A spy, trying to get insider information and, untouchably, succeeding.

"A necessity." He said, managing to make himself arrogant and refined even when he was currently covered in dirt, laying embarrassingly on the ground with Devil's Snare curling around all of him, with John Slaughter standing, looking amused in his own strange way, as he looked on.

"Yes," John agreed unexpectedly. "You had to show you would not give quietly." He nodded as if he understood completely, was not at all offended that the man before him had unsuccessfully tried to slam him back and probably knocking him out against a hundred-year old oak.

Malfoy was starting to get irritated. Why didn't he just turn him in already? It had been here for quite a while and the sky, or the bits you could see through the tree's canopy (and if Draco craned his head way back to look from his uncomfortable position on the ground), the clouds had slowly given way to dusk. It was getting darker, and the Forbidden Forest was getting ominously quieter. The shouts that Draco had heard earlier had disappeared completely, or were either muffled to the point of silence by the ever-imposing dark.

"What are we still doing here?" He asked, allowing his aggravation to show in his voice as his eyes watched Slaughter look into the encroaching forest, unmoving.

Slaughter spared Malfoy a glance before he turned back to glare around him. "What do you mean?" He asked, annoyingly collected.

"Why are you, Slaughter, still standing there and not hauling me back to McGonagall?"

"Professor McGonagall, as you will be surprised to know, is not interested in you."

This came as a slight shock, but Draco decided he wouldn't be bothered with it right now. Slaughter was avoiding his question, and both the young men knew it.

"You didn't answer the question, Slaughter."

John finally turned back to look at him. He approached, and Malfoy, who had to refrain from trying to wriggle away—he knew it was impossible with the Devil's Snare still wrapped—very tightly—around him. Slaughter looked down at him, his gaze very intense. There was silence for a few moments before Slaughter said quietly, unexpectedly, "Get up, you look ridiculous."

"Well, I _would_, but—

And Slaughter hexed the accursed vine off of him. It gave a protesting sort of plant-scream before withering from the light of Slaughter's 'lumos' spell. Malfoy mentally cursed himself for not thinking of that.

Draco got to his feet, as slowly and nonchalantly as a man on the run can. Slaughter was a bit taller, but Malfoy had cursed bigger, heavier men than him. Of course, none of those men had had the last name 'Slaughter', either.

Then, righting his robe as best as the tattered thing could be, he asked in a dispassionate sort of tone, "What do you want, Slaughter?"

"You know where Roshiv is, and I don't. You probably know where Royce and Steele are, and I don't." He was scowling heavily as he said their names.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows as he slicked back his disgustingly unruly hair. "Roshiv?" He asked, playing dumb, "What the hell does she have anything to do with this?"

Slaughter sighed wearily and was about to tell him off for playing stupid, but he decided to play along. Telling him off would be much more trouble than it was worth, and that would break his so-far-formal appearance to the Hogwart's student body. "She's the one that told the Death Eaters how to get in to Hogwarts," He explained slowly, watching for Draco's reaction, "And she's missing. Taken off."

Draco Malfoy looked at Slaughter for a long time and then burst into laughter. He wasn't worried about being heard anymore. "And the Gryffindors are supposed to be the just ones," He chortled, smiling wickedly to himself. "And here is John Slaughter, all around good guy that never tells off anyone, insults anyone, or sullies himself by hanging around other—well, not _normal_—but other Gryffindors." He laughed again, and had to put a hand to his chest because he could hardly breathe. "And here he is, offering me, a top-rated felon, my freedom for information on the rest of the pussies that hang out with him and Roshiv, the Bolivian exchange student from Durmstrang, who is suspected of handing the good school of Hogwarts over to the few remaining Death Eaters."

John looked at Malfoy, disgust written clearly across his face. "Hilarious," He growled.

After Draco had gotten over his uncharacteristic fit of laughter, he said, "I don't know where your friends or Roshiv are, Slaughter." His ever-present smirk was back.

"Don't give me bullshit, Malfoy." John grunted. "I don't have time for it."

"Oh, excuse me." Malfoy said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Since you don't have the time to stick around, I'll hand over all I know."

"Thank you."

"I was joking, Slaughter."

"I don't care."

Malfoy sighed. "So, let me get this straight—you think I, a hardcore Slytherin, know where the other imbeciles you call friends are and that wench Roshiv are, all loyal Gryffindor drunks are."

He had a good argument, Slaughter had to admit. But he wasn't buying it. "Men don't disappear on their own, Malfoy. Not unless they're Roshiv, who is, consequently, a woman, and suspected of—

"You don't have to tell me what she's done," Malfoy said stubbornly, "I already know."

"Then why don't you enlighten me by telling me where she is so I can wring her pretty neck?"

Malfoy smirked. "Violent, Gyffindor." He rolled his shoulders in a display of leisure—he was enjoying toying with John Slaughter. It was something not everyone got to do. After all, none of the Slytherins had gotten a shot at him through Quidditch—Slaughter, although an experienced flyer, had not tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Neither had they gotten him in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Slaughter was also infamously fast with a wand. He looked untouchable.

But appearances, as Malfoy was now discovering, were quite deceiving.

It all came to him, hit him like a train wreck. His mouth fell open, his eyes going wide. "You're not serious," He said quietly, astonished.

John didn't answer—he just gazed back at Malfoy, curiously quiet.

"Slaughter—you're not trying to find Roshiv to kill her, are you? You're trying to warn her, to get her out, away from Hogwarts. Aren't you?" Malfoy demanded, delighted by the turn of events.

"Yes."

Malfoy was not at all startled by this apt confession—John knew Malfoy couldn't go to Hogwarts to tell anyone. And if he could, who would believe him? The plan was laid out perfectly. "And Steele and Royce—they aren't missing. Hiding, aren't they? But something went wrong, and now you can't find them."

And then, John Slaughter proceeded to stun Draco Malfoy—and execute a memory charm on him.

No one could know.

Otherwise, John Slaughter, Esmerelda Roshiv, Dominic Steele, and Daniel Royce would be sent to Azkaban.

And God knows, they couldn't take down the Ministry from there.

**A/N:**

Ahahahaha! Evil plan! Or not so evil? You'll have to wait and see!

Don't you love cliff hangers? No? Oh. Well. You'll survive, then.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Pweeze? –puppy eyes-


	2. Chapter 2: Little Red Ridinghood

"Roshiv

"Roshiv."

"Potter."

"Little Red Riding Hood."

"Weasley."

"Esmerelda."

"Hermione."

Roshiv stood as far away from the trio as she could, watching them warily. Ron and Harry were still catching up with each other—apparently, the rest of Hogwarts thought that Potter was one of the missing when, in fact, he had been chasing her for nearly a day and a half around in the Forbidden Forest. His pursuit was incredibly difficult to evade, and he had been gaining on her for quite some time before his friends, Granger and Weasley, had caught up, brooms in their hands.

Both Potter and Esmerelda were tired—he, clad in blue jeans and a regular shirt that he had been wearing during the battle, with a good number of cuts and gashes across his well-muscled body. He had managed to heal the worst by himself, as she had done.

Esmerelda was the worse looking at the moment out of the four. Her long, scarlet red cloak that had caused Ron to make his 'Little Red Ridinghood' remark hid the damage done to her thin tank top and jeans, thankfully, because that was rather embarrassing. Long, wavy black hair spilled out of the cloak's hood and down past her shoulders. One hand was clenched around her wand, the other balled up into a fist, hidden inside the long sleeve of the cloak.

Ron was glaring at her, Hermione looking between the two, trying to understand. Hermione was one of the few Roshiv would miss—she had been a good friend, accepted her willingly into Hogwarts, when others had given her the cold shoulder. Esmerelda couldn't blame them—Durmstrang hadn't had the best reputation there, she realized, but it had only made it worse when the words had gotten out—via the Slytherins—that her grandfather was none other than the infamous Goldvitch. That had only worsened her situation until it was, perhaps, even with how she had been treated back at Durmstrang.

And she hated that she was about to prove Hermione wrong, that she was just as bad as they said she was.

"Hermione, I—" she started, but was almost immediately cut off by Weasley.

"You betrayed us, Roshiv!" He nearly shrieked, "To Them! To the Death Eaters!"

"No, I never—

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"Ron." Potter tried, putting a soothing hand on Ron's shoulder.

He shook it off roughly, his wand in his hand.

"Ron, please, I didn't tell D—them anything!"

Ron was breathing hard, his breath visible in the cold night air. "Do you know how many are dead, Roshiv?"

She nodded sadly, tears springing to her eyes.

"Twenty-six people. They killed twenty six!"

"I know," She whispered hoarsely. "I couldn't—

"_Expelliarmus_."

Her wand flew out of her hand, and flew into Potter's own. His wand was still pointing at her—he was very, very angry, but wasn't about to erupt into flames as Weasley looked he might.

Hermione said quietly, "I'm sorry, but we have to bring you back. You know we have to, Esmerelda." Her voice had a hardened edge to it, and Roshiv hated it. Hated how she must have wounded Hermione, a deep slash to her pride.

"Hermione," Roshiv practically pleaded, "They'll put me in Azkaban for something I didn't do. I swear, I was framed. Please, believe me!"

That struck an odd note in Harry. He looked surprised to say the least, but it was covered just as quickly as it came.

Ron raised his wand. "_Stu_—

"_Expelliarmus_."

Esmerelda, startled, caught Ron's airborne wand. She turned to look behind her, from where the spell had been executed. She saw the glint of a gray cape in the dark, and she sighed, relieved.

"Dominic," She said, her voice more calm than before, "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," Steele grunted as he stepped out of the dark, his silver-grey cloak swishing about his feet.

Steele was a handsome man—he had dulled blond hair, to the point that it, too, looked prematurely grey at seventeen. The idea was outrageously ridiculous, but true. He was on the shorter side, barely coming up to Weasley's chin when he stood next to him—which had, coincidentally, about three times throughout the whole year—but his height suited him. He was skinny but quite obviously toned—quite an eye catcher, really. Roshiv, however, was one of very few that chose to disregard his looks—as much as any woman could—and went about business liked she wasn't standing next to a male model.

"Put down your wand, Granger, you look ridiculous."

Oh, yes—Steele was also a Slytherin.

Hermione's wand stayed aloft, though, and Dominic sighed impatiently. He clenched his fists tightly, resulting in his silver-ringed fingers to crack in the silence, and rubbed one of his hands across his face. Finally, he smiled, showing a row of straight, white teeth. "Just thought I'd even up the score is all—I can't say I'm all that surprised, though. Three Gryffindors against one, lone Ravenclaw girl." He shook his head, amused, and made a 'tsk, tsk' sound.

Esmerelda frowned. "You make me sound completely helpless, Dominic." She said irritably, looking warily back at the Gryffindors and eyeing Hermione's raised wand cautiously.

"Well, seeing as we all—most of us anyway—have wands, you practically are."

"_Accio Esmerelda's wand."_

Again, her wand flew, with surprising speed, into the dark. Esmerelda huffed, put up with the game of wand-football.

"Daniel," She said crossly, "Give me my freakin' wand back."

Daniel chuckled as he, too, came out of the dark. He grinned at the Golden Trio, dipped his head mockingly, and said, answering her standard questions before she got a chance to ask them, "No, I haven't been there for long at all, yes, I really am Daniel Royce, yes, I can prove it is me, no, I am not hurt, yes, John is on his way, and, no, I have absolutely no intention on hexing, jinxing, cursing, or any form of spell-casting on our lovely, oh so wonderful, company."

He didn't even look out of breath.

Esmerelda held out her hand expectantly towards Daniel, who laughed, and put the long wand in her hands. She smiled half-heartedly at him.

"Okay, gents." Daniel said, brushing his long, brownish-red hair out of his eyes. "And lady." He added courteously on sight of Hermione. "I will just forget that you threatened dear, innocent Esmerelda here for a while, or until you all can get your slight little tushes out of my sight, okay?" He said this all in a cheery manner, as if he were commenting on the weather. "And we can all forget this little incident, and go home, all nice and polite."

"Twenty six bodies said it happened." Harry growled, his eyes alight with nothing short of fury. "Roshiv taking off said it happened."

"I was behind followed by someone," She said defiantly, "I had no way of knowing whether it was you or a Death Eater!"

"And I s'pose that your little mistake makes everything else you did go away, right?" Asked Ron venomously. "That we would all forget about it?"

"Wait, wait." Daniel cut in, bemused, "What did dear ol' Roshiv do exactly?"

"Betrayed Hogwart's secrets to the remaining Death Eaters. Killed twenty-six innocent people. Roshiv? Did you know you killed a first-year? He was eleven years old, Esmerelda!" Ron fumed, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

She winced, but stayed silent while Daniel did the talking.

"That's a bit harsh, mate. What evidence do you have that she was the one to betray you?"

Ron stopped for a moment, taken aback. What was there? That she was from Durmstrang? That she had left right after the battle? That she had been detached from social circles because of her heritage? That she was pureblood?

"Ah, you see?" Daniel cooed. "She has done nothing at all."

Steele snorted. "Sure, Daniel. Sure."

Esmerelda just about hexed him right there. "Nothing that hurt anyone, you moron!"

Steel grinned. "Oh." He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Nothing at all."

Daniel smirked. "Steele, I meant physically. She hasn't killed"—Esmerelda saw his eyes dart back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to see if they noticed the slight falter in his voice, detected his lie—"anyone from Hogwarts." There, that was true. Unless Esmerelda had stalked the Hogwarts halls at night and killing anyone upon seeing them, which Daniel rendered as outrageous.

"And I'm sure that she will go willingly back with you to see McGonagall. Right, dearest?"

Esmerelda gaped. "Daniel!" She shrieked. "They'll lock me up! Azkaban, Daniel!"

Daniel shook his head, smiling slightly. "Maybe. But wouldn't it only make it worse for yourself if you ran?"

Esmerelda swallowed—she was certain that Harry Potter wouldn't hesitate to take her to the Ministry. Straight there, after Hogwarts. "But I—oh."

Straight to the Ministry.

"Oh, alright." She conceded ungracefully. "I'll go with them."

"That's a good girl."

Esmerelda glared at Daniel, who's smirk became even more prominent over his handsome features.

"You two were listed as missing." Hermione spoke up for the first time in a while, looking between Steele and Daniel Royce. "You ought to come, too."

"Ah," Daniel said, shaking his head. "But you see, I only said Esmerelda was the one who hadn't killed anyone. Steele and I, on the other hand—well, we have different agendas."

"_Stupefy!_" Grunted Daniel.

Hermione had time to block the spell and Potter dived away, but Ron went down. Hermione shrieked from behind the bush.

Daniel's feet left the ground as he soared backwards. He landed with a sickening thump and a curse, rolling head over heels. Harry stood not to far away, wand raised.

Steele, taking the chance that Harry had presented, shouted, "_Memblorsia!" _

Esmerelda launched herself forward, legs moving before the conscious thought to prevent the spell even crossed her mind. Harry spun, his eyes widening when he saw Steele and the shot of blue moving toward him.

"Esmerelda!" Steele grunted in alarm as he saw what she was about to do.

"Roshiv, dammit!" Daniel cried at the same time as Steele, scrambling up, to try and stop his friend from running in front of the spell. But of course, it was much too late by the time he got to his feet.

Esmerelda threw herself in front of Harry, the accurately aimed spell hitting her squarely in the chest. She stumbled backwards, right into Harry, who, unthinkingly, caught her.

Esmerelda's cloak was a scarlet red color. So, when it started to turn a deep shade of burgundy, Daniel, Steele, Hermione, and Harry went into red alert.

"Dominic!" Daniel turned his enraged look to Steele, his eyes wild. "Why the bloody _hell _did you do that?!"

Esmerelda's eyes were closed, her hand pressed against her chest. Daniel, his jaw tight, moved towards her and, coincidentally, Harry, who automatically lifted his wand from where he was kneeled on the ground not but a mere foot away from where Daniel. Royce, his arm outstretched to Esmerelda, froze when he realized he had two wands on him. Hermione was panting behind him, the tip of her wand a slight jab in between his shoulders.

"Come any closer, Steele, and Royce is a dead man." She threatened, her voice hard.

Steele brought his hands up in surrender slowly, though his wand was still held loosely in his left hand.

Daniel glared furiously down at Harry, his normally suave looking face contorted in anger.

Harry looked back up at him, kneeling on the ground from where he had stumbled under Esmerelda's unexpected weight. One arm was wrapped protectively—maybe without his own consent—around Esmerelda, who was lying, limp and out cold, across his knees, his legs folded under himself.

Daniel's ragged breathing was the only thing in the long silence, as he switched his gaze from Harry to Esmerelda. Her cloak was terribly discolored now, burgundy laid over scarlet.

"Let me just heal her." Daniel said, his voice hoarse as he watched his friend bleed. Daniel was a murderer, savage and cool at the same time, but he was loyal. To see his friend practically on the ground, her chest ripped open from the inside, was worse than anything you could throw at him. It was worse than any torture.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who nodded inconspicuously. She thought it was a good idea—after all, they couldn't let Esmerelda go on bleeding; she could possibly die from blood loss, it looked so bad—but that would mean letting Daniel move, giving him what he wanted.

"Why?" Ron's voice, actually a lot more bitter than Harry could have thought possible. "Why should we? It would only make the death count go up to twenty-seven. One more life wouldn't make a difference, would it? One life for twenty six others isn't so bad, is it?"

Daniel's jaw locked in place. Harry and Hermione gazed at their friend, their eyes wide, appalled. Apparently, this was way out of his character. Ron smiled viciously at Daniel.

"Revenge is sweet, isn't it?"

Daniel snarled in fury, his eyes raw with pain.

Esmerelda convulsed, her shoulders hunching up. Her lips opened in a silent scream, a plea for mercy maybe, but she gasped. Her hands clenched, nails digging into the dirt. Her hood, which had fallen back, gave way to her long black hair that spilled out across the ground, her tanned face crumpling in pain. Daniel's sharp intake of breath mirrored that same agony.

From ten feet behind them all, Steele commanded, "Let Daniel heal her, Potter. That would have been you if not for Esmerelda." His voice was steely, reflecting his namesake, as he spoke. It was quite obvious that he needed her healed, too or he would have to live knowing that he had killed one of his best friends.

Harry nodded—he couldn't deny that. His head was reeling. She had known what Steele had been about to do—so why had she taken it for him? When he had accused her, and in that accusation, pursued her for longer than a day?

Harry moved away, but kept his wand poised, as he slid Esmerelda carefully off of his knees. Nevertheless, she gasped, though she still seemed to be unconscious. As soon as she was off Harry's lap, Daniel dropped to his knees beside her.

The rest of the group standing in the small clearing watched soberly as Daniel peeled away the scarlet cloak and cursed as he surveyed the extensive damage. Daniel scowled heavily and growled, "Steele, I'm going to kill you."

Steele, his hands back by his sides now, sighed and said, "Please, Daniel, make it painful."

"I was planning on it," muttered Royce as his wand trailed along the inner working off the deep cuts, healing the underlying skin. Daniel secretly was grateful Esmerelda was somewhat asleep for this—otherwise, she would have a hell of a time trying to keep herself from fainting from the pain.

Daniel prodded her with the wand again, healing the outer side of the skin.

"Steele," He said sternly, looking up from his position on the ground. "I'm going back with them." His eyes locked with Steele's, daring him to object. Steele opened up his mouth to protest but then realized Daniel's logic. If anyone pulled a wand on Esmerelda, her reaction time would be much too slow. There would be bruising, and she needed to see a real Healer before much else could be done. And even after that, Esmerelda would have a hell of a time doing anything physically demanding. She was a strong girl, but Daniel would have to watch her back for a while. So Steele nodded, conceding.

"Fine." He sighed. "I'll find Jo—the last of us," His voice was thick of implications, "And we'll be waiting for you."

Daniel nodded, but Ron was already saying, "No, you aren't going anywhere."

Steele, in answer, completely disappeared.

Or, not completely, but he seemed to.

Daniel could see his shimmering shape in the dark creep silently away from a very confused Harry, Hermione, and Ron. The grey Cloak of Disillusionment was doing its job. Though the others didn't, Daniel knew that the cloak acted like a chameleon of sorts, adopting the coloring of the scenery behind the wearer. It was dead useful in times like these.

Daniel fit his arms underneath Esmerelda's limp body, and got up, the woman in his arms. "Let's go." He said, no longer his usually suave self. "She needs to be seen by someone."

Harry reluctantly agreed—Steele was gone, and he knew it.

As they trudged through the thick underbrush, Hermione in the lead, Ron sulking beside him, and Harry bring up the rear, Daniel cursed himself.

First of all, he had gotten himself caught along with Roshiv.

Second of all, he didn't have his wand on him—Harry had it.

Third of all, he had allowed Esmerelda to be wounded quite seriously by one of his own friends, even if it was by accident.

And then, fourth, he had let his enemies see his weakness—he was incredibly loyal to those he held close.

And he knew, by the stern set of Ronald Weasley's jaw, that he would not forget it.

Daniel cursed aloud this time. "Damn you," He murmured bitterly.

Beside him, Ron's sullen look morphed into a smirk and he said so low that none of his friends could hear, "That's right, Royce—I know." He said, as if reading Daniel's mind. "And if you try anything—anything at all—she'll pay for it."

And Daniel knew it was true.

He looked down at Esmerelda's sleeping figure in his arms, her chest rising evenly with each breath she took, her eyes shut, so that she looked utterly peaceful. And then, he cursed the person that had gotten them stuck here.

"Damn you, Daniel," He muttered to himself, and then he said louder, "Go to hell."

"Yes," Ron said, more clearly this time. "Yes, you probably will."

**A/N:**

Okay, I know—Ron is acting WAY out of character. But there is a reason for that! I swear, I'm not an anti-Ron type person. The guy's really funny. And he will go back to normal…just…not anytime…well, soon. xD

It's part of the plot, people! Let's just say that Ron has, erm, other things on his mind, shall we? .

And I have something else for you!

Anime's List of Strange Spells

1. _Memblorsia_—an uncommonly used spell that is often associated with the Dark Arts. It's effects are immediate. The spell ruptures the target's skin, causing the skin itself to implode.

Gross, I know, but Steele isn't the fairest guy in the book. Well, morally speaking anyway. D

2. _Snarilosia—_A spell in which a plant known as Devil's Snare is conjured and moves in the general area the user's wand is directed.

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Thanks!

Anime


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